the sea. Often these same men would stick a hook on a line inside the guts they cast to the wind and then haul the bird in by its bloody mouth.
A cruel sport. But it is a cruel world.
The gull wheeled off into the sky, in the direction of the noisy squabbling flock.
Feeding time.
10
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE,
Jean Brash looked out of the window of her bawdy-hoose, and was conscious of a melting uneasy feeling in her heart.
Below, she could see Hannah Semple, her strong right hand and keeper of the keys of the Just Land, hanging out some of the sheets on the line with one of the girls.
This afternoon the weather had lifted a little with a stiff breeze finding its way up the hill, and Hannah was a demon for airing the bed linen even in November. It was her belief that the clients appreciated a whiff of cleanliness before sinking into the debauchery of their choice.
Jean had no strong opinion on this; in her experience, some liked to be enveloped in the musky odour of sin and any hint of otherwise set them looking anxiously around in case their lawful wife was somewhere in the vicinity.
Perhaps lying rigid under the bed, hands clasped prayerfully together, ready to slide out as if on wheels and confront the miscreant in the throes of his illicit libidinous pleasures.
The image amused her for a moment then the uneasy seasick undulations of emotion, tugging at her from under like drowning waves, brought Jean Brash to an inescapable, deep and undesired conclusion.
It would seem her affection had become fixed upon another. Her lover. Hopefully he had not noticed an older woman’s infatuation; young men can often be trusted on that score. They rise and leave without a backward glance.
Yet she had set down the rules of engagement. It was to be purely for the enjoyment of the senses, concupiscence and champagne, fleshly abandon. All the easy virtues.
Something had changed however. It would seem she had lost part of herself to someone else. Now, in his absence, she felt herself incomplete, lacking hold, an emptiness in the breadbasket. Damnation.
Where was he now? What other trysts? She did not know and could not ask within the rules. The pair were to operate freely, and Jean was caught in a web of her own making.
Self-trammelled.
Once before in her life, she had suffered such a passage. A tainted oyster. She had swallowed it down, with a deal of relish. It had taken months to recover.
The comparison brought some much-needed humour to the situation. With luck it would pass.
As McLevy often said. ‘
My God, if he knew that she was sick in love, he would spit out the coffee and die laughing.
He hadn’t been round to scrounge a cup for a while, and she missed his perverse company. Possibly just as well, however, not be under that evil scrutiny.
Jean looked out of the corner of her eye and found her image peeking back from one of many mirrors that adorned her boudoir.
This was her refuge. On a recent whim, the curtains and hangings had been refurbished in a pale peach colour that contrasted delicately with the white sheets and pillows. This feminine aspect was also enhanced by filmy gauze, draped tastefully here and there, which, reflecting back and forward from one mirror to another, produced an illusion of changing shapes, a shifting world.
Hannah, who had preferred the former hue, a coral red more suited to the inner functions of the bawdy- hoose, acknowledged it with some irony as ‘
So be it.
And here, her lover had not thus far penetrated. She would not allow it. Not that she’d been asked which rather piqued her. He seemed to have no interest in her personal details, only, as he often remarked, the pleasure of her company.
They met elsewhere in the attic rooms of a discreet house in McDonald Road, from which you might see in the far distance the grey tombstones of Rosebank cemetery, or watch the trains of the North British line puff their way from the east towards the docks, then back again.
Not that she ever saw the view. The curtains were always drawn, candles lit, shadows frenzied on the wall.
He rented those rooms and she wondered did he use them for other assignations?
The likeness shook her head in disapproval. A woman of her time and experience should know better.
There she stood, dressed up to the nines in the latest fashion, sheathed like a princess, the dress boned and tight-fitting, the cuirass bodice falling to the hips and flanks, moulding her long lean body like a second skin.
Red hair. Green eyes. Complexion still smooth, though at the corners of the eyes and the full mouth, some wrinkles threatened to gather.
Not enough yet for outright rebellion but gathering none the less.
She leant forward and gazed deeply into herself.
You’d never guess the things these eyes had looked upon from the time of a curtailed childhood when she had looked up and the shadow falling over her was that of a cruel and vicious animal.
Henry Preger. He had abused her and she had poisoned him eventually. But, not soon enough …
The image blinked to dispel such memory.
Jean threw back her head and flipped up the back of her dress, as she swung round. It trailed behind her like the closed tail of a bird; indeed the colour was peacock blue.
They had met last night. No questions asked. Then he had left, late into the night. Business, he said. He had business on hand.
He had helped her into the waiting carriage and waved her goodbye, handkerchief fluttering.
Business on hand.
They had made another rendezvous for this very night but perhaps she would not go, perhaps she would punish him for not being at her beck and call.
Perhaps.
Outside in the garden, a bird chattered in alarm. A series of sharp cracks denoting a sensed danger.
‘This is menial.’
Rachel Bryden’s pale face was set in sulky lines, her hands were freezing and this was surely no occupation for a horizontal of her ability and class.
She had plied her trade in the Just Land for six months now and was highly regarded especially by the older clients who deluded themselves that her fair hair and soft skin, elegant body and oval countenance, might intimate a recently lost virginity, or, at the very least, purity that trembled on the verge of translation.
Her speciality was surrender. Then she brought blood to the surface and afterwards, as the client lay spent, her busy little mind calculated how far to compromise and following on, to corrupt.
‘Menial,’ she said once more.
Hannah Semple made no answer. Her mouth was full of clothes pegs.
